Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

  We reach Rockefeller Plaza, and the two of us study the address I wrote down yesterday. "That has to be it," Nasreen says, pointing to a line of people standing behind pedestrian barriers.

  "That line is so long!" I say. This is worse than the cafeteria line at school. Sometimes I only have ten minutes to scarf down my food because I'm standing in line most of the time. But this is something else. We might be here all day.

  "Maybe it'll move fast. Come on."

  We join the line. In front of me are people who are much older than I am: men with stubble and women with lined faces. I hear one lady tell another she's twenty-nine. That's almost ancient. What's she even doing here when this show is for the young? But even though they're old, they're dressed cool, with zippers, buttons, and spangles all over their clothes.

  Some skinny Prince-wannabe with a moustache and Jheri curls comes to us and asks me to pin a number on my shirt. He hands me a piece of paper with #191 written in marker, which I pin below my shoulder. Nasreen shakes her head and tells the guy she's there to support me. He moves along. "We're going to be here forever!" I whine again.

  We move a few feet forward, so it isn't that bad. At least I'm making progress with the line. People are joining the line behind me. Hairspray, perfume, cologne, scrambled eggs, butter, and bad body odor mingle together in the sizzling air. Trickles of sweat begin at my hairline and make their way down the sides of my face. My makeup artist, Nasreen, blots my face with a napkin. "You're going to knock them dead," she says.

  "Thanks for the support," I say.

  "Really, no one's going to dance better than you. And look at the other girls with all that paint shellacked on their faces, too-tight clothes, and wrinkles. You're the prettiest young thing here."

  "Pretty young thing," someone behind me sings.

  I turn around to look into a pair of eyes that hit me like a laser beam. Luscious, dark hair sprouts from the top of his head. He's turned slightly away from me, and I see a braid trickle from the nape of his neck. Some of my friends make fun of guys with rattails, but I think they're hot. This guy is smoking. Black jeans, black tank top, studded belt... and the more I look at him, he looks like John Stamos. He morphs into the guy I met in the airplane. Tall, dark, and handsome.

  "Abe?" I say.

  "Asma?" he says.

  "Oh my God," we say together, shocked at seeing each other again. I thought seeing him was a one-time thing, that we'd both be swallowed by the city and our respective families.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask.

  "I love to dance, so I thought why not audition since I'm in town."

  "Me too!" I smile so hard that I hope my eye makeup isn't falling apart. I already feel specks of powder crumple onto my cheeks. Nasreen blots them away. That's what I get for using cheap makeup with the low funds I have.

  After Nasreen fixes my makeup, she glares at Abe. One thing I've noticed about her is how distrustful she is of everyone. I'm more open to people. I'll say hi to a stranger. I'll give coins to the homeless. Nasreen is the opposite and shuts herself off from everyone. I smile at Abe, my brief companion from the airplane before some big guy ruined things by asking him to move. John Candy could've been nice and switched seats with Abe; I've switched seats for the elderly, newlyweds, and other people who belong together, and it had to be obvious Abe and I were together, even though we were strangers.

  Nasreen pulls me by the elbow when we're holding up the line. We join the people in front of us, and Abe follows, his cologne, Drakkar Noir, drifting to my nostrils. It's a crisp, clean, sexy smell.

  "I'm getting something to drink," Nasreen says. "I'll be right back."

  Nasreen walks around the barrier and crosses the street to where a pretzel vendor is. This is excellent, because now I have some alone time with Abe. He's grinning at me.

  "What a coincidence," he says. "I tried finding you at the airport when we arrived, but I didn't spot you. Plus my aunt was waiting for me."

  "And my uncle was waiting for me."

  "Your name is familiar. I have a grandmother named Asma."

  "I'm Persian," I explain.

  "I'm Syrian," he says.

  He's around my age, he lives not too far from me in Miami, we're both in New York at the same time, and we're both Middle Eastern. I can't ignore this information. My summer fling might be right in front of me, but I don't have much time to chitchat. I find out that Abe is staying in Greenwich Village, he loves to dance but break dancing is his specialty, and in the future he wants to get a basketball scholarship and later go to medical school... and he loves Madonna.

  A car drives by blasting "True Blue," and I feel my body move with it. "You like Madonna?" Abe asks.

  "I adore her," I say. "I wish I could go to her Madison Square Garden concert."

  "I'll be going with my aunt and uncle."

  "No way!"

  "Yes." He nods. "Isn't there a way for you to go?"

  "I don't think so. So what's your favorite song of hers?"

  We start talking about music, but then Nasreen has to come back to ruin things. "This guy still bothering you?" she asks.

  "No, no, he's not bothering me. He never was!"

  Abe smiles at Nasreen, but he can't win her over. She glowers, looking like Sam the Eagle from The Muppets.

  In no time, I'm in front of the line. Outdoors meets indoors. The humidity wears off, it gets cooler, drier, and I'm under air-conditioning vents. Someone ushers me inside a studio. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my..." I stammer.

  "Calm down!" Nasreen says. "Go in there and knock them dead."

  "You'll do great," Abe says.

  I turn around. "Thank you." I barely know him and he's already cheering for me.

  "Next!" someone yells.

  "There's no time to flirt," Nasreen whispers. "Get in there."

  I walk on unsteady feet. I'm so glad I'm wearing sneakers. My ankle starts to throb again. Oh no!

  I'm facing two guys and a woman who are behind a table and sitting on folded chairs. This is it, this is audition time, and I need to give it my all. The lights are bright, but not as bright as I thought they would be for TV. This is just an audition, not the real thing, although there is a cameraman honing in on me. His big lens is like a gigantic evil eye, a Cyclops eye. Auntie's evil-eye beads come to mind.

  "How old are you?" the woman with thick, veiny fingers and harlequin glasses asks. My eyes fixate on her many rings and huge, triangular earrings. She isn't old with her unlined face, but she dresses old. She even has old-lady hair: blonde, nearly white, and short.

  "You look a bit young," a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair says.

  "Um, I'm eighteen," I lie.

  "Yeah, right," another guy says. "We can't use this footage, no way."

  Music starts playing, which I didn't expect since the trio didn't seem to be done interviewing me. It's a dance beat without lyrics.

  "I didn't say to start!" the woman shouts. "Cut the music! We're not done talking!"

  This is my chance. I need to impress them so the inquisition about my age can end. My body moves instinctively in the large, high-ceilinged, brightly lit room. The music echoes across the walls, pounding me with its bass. I dance the same way I did in the park, with abandon. There's half a can of hairspray in my crimped hair, but the strands become limp with motion. In between my flying hair I see the blurred faces of the casting people, the cameraman, people who had been standing in the back coming closer... to see me. The pain in my ankle fades away, because this is my moment to shine.

  When the music stops I hear praise, varying from crude to fancy.

  "Nice ass on that girl."

  "She's as light and graceful as a ballerina."

  I hear all sorts of things from the gathering crowd. People carrying sound equipment, women in curlers who are being made up, and buff men wearing tight shirts and tank tops are gaping. I break out into a smile, my face straining against my overwhelming happiness, but then my smile dies when I hea
r her voice.

  The old but young lady, whom someone calls Faye, asks again, "But how old is she?"

  "That was fantastic," the two men simultaneously say.

  "Do you have a parent or guardian with you?" Faye asks.

  "No," I say, shrugging my shoulders and frowning. I conjure Nasreen's mean face that she's always giving people. "I'm old enough."

  "I'm afraid Faye's right," the older guy says. "You look quite young, the youngest person we've seen so far. We'll need a parent to sign a paper unless you have ID on you."

  "I was so excited about coming here that I left it at home," I explain. "We can always take care of technicalities later."

  "That's a shame. You're extremely talented, and I'd love to have you on the show."

  "Me too," the other man echoes.

  "What is your name?" Faye asks.

  "I go by Hot Pink."

  "Cool name," someone in the back says.

  "Great stage name," another voice pipes up.

  "You go by," Faye snorts, her rings clacking together as she gesticulates. "Anyone serious would reveal her real name first before handing us a pet name. You're not all that special to be a one- or two-name wonder. You're no Madonna or Boy George. Have a good day. I'm not entertaining any youngsters. I hope the next candidate has stopped teething and isn't wearing a training bra. Next!"

  A pretty young thing in a turquoise mini ushers me out through a different door than the one I entered from. Another pretty young thing with humongous shoulder pads gives me a sympathetic smile. But I wanted to be a P.Y.T. strutting in front of a camera for money to buy a Kulthum tape, for Madonna tickets. Why is "P.Y.T." even stuck in my head? I don't talk like that. Now I remember that Abe called me that minutes ago. I hope I get to chat with him after his audition so he can commiserate with me; I'm so embarrassed and need to talk about my dashed hopes with someone.

  I'll probably have a chance to talk with him. I linger by the door and see that Abe is next for his audition. The trio grills him with some questions, and a dance beat ensues.

  "Stop!" Faye says. "I didn't say to start! Who the hell is cuing the music?"

  The music starts prematurely, just like it had with me, and I'm glad it did. Abe is amazing.

  My eyes are transfixed to his muscular body as he break-dances. First, he does footwork before going into spins. He looks like a helicopter, spinning on his feet, his back, and finally his head. When dealing with strangers you never know what you're dealing with. Standing next to Abe outside, with him all composed and still, I never imagined his body could do these moves. My heart swells with happiness for him. Even though I'm sad about my audition, at least others can make it, and I want the best for him.

  "Hey, hey," a man calls out. "Move it along."

  A security guard points the way out, and I pry myself away from Abe's mesmerizing dance moves. The spell is broken once I'm away from him, because sadness washes over me.

  "Watch where you're going," a woman brays when I bump into her.

  "Go over there," another man in a security uniform snaps. "Exit's that way."

  Where's Nasreen? She was with me up to the point I stood in front of the casting people. Great, I can't find her. I meet one beige wall after another. I see water fountains, people bustling around, and sequins. Someone in wardrobe wheels clothes past me. To think that I could be wearing some of those clothes!

  The futility of everything hits me. I was riding too many hopes on this show when I'm a minor. My parents aren't here to sign any forms. Even if they were, they wouldn't go for the idea of me being on TV when they think TV is for loose American girls. A good girl like me doesn't belong on TV. They tolerate me on the soccer field, with my short shorts and loose shirts, but that brings trophies home and puts my name in the paper, and it'll look good on college applications. Soccer is okay, but dancing is not. To them, being on TV is meaningless, even trashy. This also confirms the beliefs of my friends. Tamara and Misty see me as a goody-goody, someone who could never be cool and glamorous. I belong on the soccer field, dressed in boyish gear, or in the library with my nose in a book.

  The crimped hair and makeup was to disguise myself in case I ended up on TV. All for nothing. I go into a restroom. When I take a paper towel to my face, indigo, violet, and fuchsia streaks mottle it; I need two more paper towels to get all the cosmetics off. The rainbow is gone, and all that's left is my bare skin. I was aggressive wiping away my makeup, and one of my nails is askew. I go ahead and rip off the flimsy, fake nails. I'm back to my stubby nails. The big, crimped hair and sexy clothes are the only un-Asma-like things left, but my face looks like me. Unglamorous me. That's how I leave the bathroom, looking for the exit, which is getting harder to find.

  "Hey, beautiful," someone calls out.

  I'm not in the mood for any pervy men. Thinking about the men at the park yesterday and the men just now, I realize my parents are right. They're predators, and I don't need their attention. And how can I be beautiful without any makeup and with fried, crispy hair?

  "Hey, wait up!"

  I spin around to confront the person. "I'm not in the mood! Go f--"

  "I didn't want to leave without saying good-bye."

  "Oh, it's you."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Uncle Jesse is here. This isn't one of my uncle-uncles, all serious, dressed in seventies polyester, smelling like mothballs, and with a handlebar moustache. This is Abe, the John Stamos look-alike, who walked out of my daydreams.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," I apologize. "I thought you were someone else."

  I look through my purse and take out a banana clip to hold back my hair. I'm never crimping my hair again. I miss my straight strands, because I know I'm a mess right now.

  "I didn't mean to be rude. I really thought you were someone else."

  "I'm jealous," he says.

  "Of who?" I ask.

  "Whoever it is you were waiting for."

  "I'm in a rush. I'm looking for my cousin."

  "The girl with spiky hair?" Abe asks.

  "Yeah."

  "I just saw her. She's looking for you too, but security wouldn't let her search the other wing of the building. Let me take you to her."

  "Thank you."

  My cheeks become heated. His smile is wry, one side of his face pulling all the way up while the other side does so halfway. He has straight, white teeth. This is a sexy, naturally lopsided smile... not what Tahir was trying to attempt with me not too long ago.

  "I thought you were pretty before, but you look even better without all that junk on your face," Abe says. "How old are you? And I mean your real age."

  "Sixteen," I admit, figuring he saw my downfall during auditions if he's asking about age. "What about you?"

  "Sixteen. That Faye woman asked me to leave. There's no playing around her."

  Sixteen? He looks eighteen. Hmmm, I never thought too much about boys my age before. I usually ignore the boys in my class and admire the upperclassmen. Every woman I know is with an older man. My dad is five years older than my mom, and Uncle is eight years older than Auntie... and I've always daydreamed about older men on the small and silver screen. When I met Abe I thought he was a high school senior or in college already. It must be his confident strut and sexiness that make him seem older.

  "Your break dancing is fantastic," I say. "I seriously don't know anyone in Miami who can dance like that."

  "I like to practice after school while I'm waiting for my mom to pick me up," he says.

  "That's when I practice too! I dance with my friends while waiting for my ride."

  We walk towards the atrium of the building, where there are stairs overlooking the lobby. I peer down and see Nasreen right away. Her spikes tower over the bangs of all the women around her. "Nasreen," I say over the din. "Nasreen!" I get her attention and she looks up. Her raccoon eyes scare me from this height. It's like looking at two pools of oil.

  "What are you doing there?" she asks. "Get your ass down here."


  "Come up here," I yell back. I don't want to lose her again.

  "No! I'm afraid of heights."

  She wouldn't want to be at the balcony-like overhang above the lobby. "All right, I'll be right there," I say.

  The atrium's stairs have heavy traffic. Abe grabs me by the hand to steer me towards the one closest to us. My hand. I can't even remember the last time I held a guy's hand. It must have been in kindergarten when we had to walk in two straight lines to and from the classroom. To the side of the stairs there are windows giving me a glimpse of the outdoors. I get that same buzz I feel every time I look at busy New York streets: people are leaving work, coming back from it, sitting at outdoor restaurants, drinking coffee, shopping, singing on the streets, playing violin for change. This area is far busier than Uncle's neighborhood. The excitement grips my heart, and I stand still, even though I feel Abe's gentle pull down the stairs as people walk around us.

  "What is it?" he asks.

  "Nothing," I say, feeling the city while I'm indoors. "Let's go."

  We walk down. Abe is holding the railing while I walk by his side. Halfway down there's a twinge in my ankle. The pain I thought was gone is back. It begins at the bony knob of my ankle and shoots up my leg. I'm only a few steps away from the lobby when I can't take the weight pressed down on my foot. I start to tumble, but Abe grips me hard.

  He gets in front of me, holding me. He eases me down the steps, my chest against his, and once we're off the steps he continues to hold me. I look into his eyes. This is probably the last time I'll see him. We're two random strangers. The same electricity I feel from looking at the city radiates from his hands and through my body. I believe he's concerned about my welfare, which is why he's not letting go of me. That small tumble, that second of tripping down the stairs, turns into something else. When his face gets closer to mine, I don't flinch or think anything's strange. He kisses me on the lips. This is nothing like the Dorito-laden kiss of last year with unromantic Brad. I close my eyes, hold him for a moment, and then we break away. People surround us, but I don't see or hear them.